


Before the Threat Neutralizes You

by starberby



Category: Benjaminutes - Fandom
Genre: Broken Boys, M/M, Mild canon divergence, Self-Worth Issues, Swearing, black ship, cocaine and alcohol, impossible to say, riftdale noir rewrite, why do i love this ship so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 02:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14322759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starberby/pseuds/starberby
Summary: What if Christian was in the bar instead of Bart?I’m new to fanfic, critiques appreciated!!





	Before the Threat Neutralizes You

Chief falls onto a barstool like a body into a grave and orders a beer. This isn’t the place people go to for a good drink—it gives the impression of being inside an uncleaned fish tank—but Chief isn’t here to treat himself. Smith is in the car, chatting up other officers, and Chief is allegedly stepping in to quickly piss. Smith, though, can be entertained for hours by “team building”. Chief is free to drink his consciousness away. Free to do whatever he wants.

He wants to quit. Walk into police HQ, toss his gun and badge on the table, and stride out of there whistling, because he doesn’t know how much more he can take. Every time he looks at Smith, a panic attack grabs him by the ribs, compressing his chest until he thinks he’s going to implode. Because he shot that kid. And no matter all the happy-puppy energy Smith exudes, Chief can only see the eyepatch, can only picture the gaping hole in Smith’s skull that Chief put there. Chief feels a similar void growing inside of his chest. 

Without Chief, though, where would Smith be? Still trying so hard, still being so good, and therefore heading straight down the path to getting shot again, this time by someone who cares a hell of a lot less than Chief does. So Chief can’t leave. He can only grieve and keep going. 

The alcohol doesn’t always help. Regardless, Chief’s ordering another beer sooner and sooner, feeling the burn of alcohol down his throat and loving the way it distracts him from the other pain. He’s content to lose himself in carnal troubles for the night, to have Smith eventually find him and have no choice but to take them both home. Who cares if he looks shameful? He *is* shameful. He deserves to have Smith look down on him, for once. 

As Chief thinks this, though, he notices the only other bar patron out of the corner of his eye. Two stools down, with their head in their arms, upper body lying on the bar, looking worse off than Chief feels. He suspects they’re just another drunk, but the drink in front of them is a wine glass full of milk. Unusual. 

Chief blames Smith for the caring impulse he feels. Damn kid’s making him softer than a rotten apple. Still, Chief slides over a stool and gives the stranger a nudge. “You okay there?” 

There’s a beat of silence. “Fucking great,” the stranger retorts, not raising their head. Still, Chief is used to the types of people who don’t like cops to know their identity. He prods on.

“What’s someone like you doing in a place like this?”

“If that’s a pickup line, I fucking swear—“

“I’m talking about the milk.” Chief sticks his chin up toward the beverage, even though the stranger won’t see it. “A bit unusual for a place like this.”

They shoot back, “A bit unusual for a cop to be drinking on the job.”

Chief growls. “I’m on break.”

“Please. Don’t try to pull that shit with me.”

Chief considers his response as he takes another swig. He goes for honesty. “I shouldn’t be a cop,” he says, and tips his drink in the stranger’s direction. “This is simply living up to my own expectation.” 

The stranger says nothing to this, but now that they made Chief talk, there’s no stopping. The story pours out: his partner, Smith, has hope for catching their criminal, and for helping him; Chief has no doubt that the scum-sucker is going to need to die; despite this knowledge, Chief knows he won’t be the one to do it. 

The stranger perks up at this last part, almost lifting their head before hiding it in their arms again. “Why do you say that?”

Chief licks his lips, and takes a slow sip from his bottle. “I shot Smith. I didn’t want to, but the situation was dire and I didn’t now what else to do. Took the kid’s eye out. When he’s looked up to me so much, too.” He takes a deep breath. “ I haven’t been able to shoot a gun since then.”

“. . . No shit?”

“I’ve tried. Even at targets. But the second I pick it up, I try to aim, and I see his face. There’s a lot of damage a bullet can do, and I’ve caused more than my share of it.”

“I get it,” the stranger says. There’s a pause, but for once, Chief doesn’t feel the urge to fill it with monologues. He wants to hear what the stranger has to say. 

Eventually, they continue. “I’m not a good person.”

“Hey, now.” Chief starts to contradict them, then realizes the likelihood of it being the truth. “You’re in good company,” is the best he can answer. 

“No, I mean, I’m really not a good person. You hurt someone you care about, but at least you care about him. At least it happened in a moment of panic. You made a shit mistake, but you can repent. Even God knows I’m not redeemable.”

Shit. Is this what it’s like to be on the receiving end of Chief’s brooding? He racks his alcohol-messed brain for a reply. “Listen, I’ve been on the force for a while. I’ve seen scum in my days, so no matter what you’ve done, I’m sure I’ve seen worse. Take the current crook I’m after. We call him the Priest: he’s a con-man, a robber, and murderer. Now that’s a real low-life. He has a hostage in his grips now, too, and you can be sure Smith and I are only looking for a body, not a civilian found safe again.”

Chief notices the stranger is tensing up, but he figures it’s the talk of death. They still need to hear this, and know they aren’t the worst of the worst, at least. 

“After all, the Priest is a textbook dirtbag,” Chief continues. “Doesn’t care about anyone, and has no regard for human life. Takes people and uses them like napkins, only he’s causing more mess than he cleans. These types are all the same. They don’t care that they’re bad people. They like to hurt others.”

The stranger mumbles something into their arm. “What’s that?” Chief asks.

The stranger’s up like a trip wire’s been sprung; leaning in, face in Chief’s face, breathing hard. “You’re wrong,” they repeat. Chief feels that panic in his chest, and winces as it threads its fingers through the slots of his ribcage and pulls in tight. He takes in the stranger’s face, the blood-shot eyes with bags like they’re ready to skip town. The greasy hair and stubble, the cocaine on his upper lip. And, around his neck, the familiar collar. 

“Priest,” he whispers, and the crook retorts, “My name’s Christian.” 

Chief fumbles for his gun, manages to overcome the drunkenness to press the front into Christian’s gut, but Christian only laughs—a joyless sound, like a guard dog bark. “Go ahead and try. You already told me it’s no use, fucker.”

“I’ll make an exception for you.”

“No, you won’t.” Christian breathes heavily, baring his teeth, and Chief wonders if he’s facing the sober or stoned version of the con-man. He wonders which one’s worse. 

Chief’s options are slim; he can’t shoot. He’d only been bluffing and Christian called him on it. The bartender’s nowhere in sight, as this is the type of bar where altercations take place and people turn blind eyes all the time. He could try to reach Smith—no. There’s no way, and the kid would only be more trouble. Chief doesn’t break eye contact with Christian as he wonders about how the hell to get out of this. 

“You don’t know shit about me,” Christian seethes. “You’ve chased me, and you say you understand me, but you don’t. Not even when you talk like—“  
he stops himself, staring hard into Chief’s eyes, not shooting daggers so much as throwing a machete with his glare. 

“Like what?” Chief asks gruffly, stalling for time. He needs to use the gun. He needs to pull the trigger. But those eyes. Not at all like Smith’s eyes, and yet he can see desperation in them. Desperation, desperation for what? Chief knows there’s no saving this man, but Smith’s hope is so strong, and Chief has already done so much wrong. 

“—like you understand.” Christian gulps. It’s a splinter of despair, inflaming his anger to a extreme. He presses into the gun, shoving the back end into Chief’s front, as of the threat of the weapon were reversed. “You know what it’s like to do wrong, to cause a hurt so bad. Don’t you get it? Wouldn’t you give anything to take that mistake away?” Christian’s shaking. Chief can’t tell if it’s a drug thing or the emotions. Christian’s voice becomes a whisper, forced out of him from a dark place. “Wouldn’t you trade any kind of hurt for a clean slate? Wouldn’t you sacrifice your soul if it meant, for even a second, you could believe in salvation again? We’ve both been around enough to know there’s no saving, right, Chief? Well, why do we pretend? Why let Smith believe, why not pull the trigger, huh?” 

Fuck. Chief’s finger’s on it, and Christian’s shaking like a building ready to go down in flames. “Why not?” the conman repeats. “Why not?”

“Because—“ Chief grinds his teeth.

“Because we want to pretend. Despite it all, we want to believe in a way out. Think about it.” He leans in closer, so their noses are almost touching. “You spilled your secrets as soon as you found an available ear. Even from someone like me, you’d kill for a second opinion. You want to feel salvageable.”

Chief has no idea what to do. But, god damn it, he is going to explode if he doesn’t move soon. Because Christian is right. More than anything, Chief wants to be healed, to believe in his own redemption. And here Christian is, so irredeemable, this monster who knows exactly how it feels. It tears Chief up inside, it makes him unbelievably dirty to relate to such a criminal. He feels stained from the inside out. It’s maddening. 

And, like the time with Smith, he recalls his training. Neutralize the threat before it neutralizes you. So Chief does that, the only way he can think to. 

He stares Christian in the eyes. And drops the gun. And lunges.

And kisses him. 

That last part. . . wasn’t expected. By either party. Their lips mash together, and Christian is tense as a cadaver. Chief thinks in the back of his mind, this is how he dies. But in an instant Christian breaks, not softening so much as throwing his power against Chief. They are colliding forces, they are a natural disaster together. Christian pulls Chief closer, wrapping his arms around the cop’s torso and dragging the two of them together, and they go at it with matched amounts of anger and passion. 

Christian tastes like every bad thing Chief’s ever done. Chief runs his hands through Christian’s hair and they both break away from the kiss, gasping. Neither of them have any clue what to do, where to go from here. 

“I—“ Christian glances down, unable to make eye contact. Chief brings one hand down to cup the other man’s jaw. “I ordered milk because it’s what Bart drinks,” Christian blurts out.

“Bart?”

“My hostage. He’s—he’s my Smith. I wanted to know what it felt like, to be that pure.”

Chief inhales. He pulls Christian in for another horrible, beautiful kiss.


End file.
